


Disaster Zone

by engmaresh



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Bat Family, Batdad, Bruce and his kids, Bruce is a good dad, Butlerdad, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:08:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/pseuds/engmaresh
Summary: There are nine,nineother bathrooms in the manor. Somehow it’s always Bruce’s that ends up a disaster zone.





	Disaster Zone

The dog’s barking woke him. He rolled over. For a moment he lay back against his scattered pillows, trying to chase down the remnants of his dream. The dog barked again. Not a dream then. Too close, almost like Titus was outside his room. He got out of bed, rubbing grit from his eyes, and now he could hear Damian over the faint sound of running water, trying to hush his dog.

Bruce knocked on the bathroom, giving his son some warning that he was entering. Just in case there were knives. Behind the door, he could hear Damian bite back a curse. The water shut off. He took it as a sign to open the door, but didn’t enter, instead leaning against the door jamb and crossing his arms.

“Father,” said Damian. He was climbing to his feet, a soaked towel—one of Bruce’s fluffy, white, monogrammed towels—in his his hands. It was now stained with dirt and god only knew what else. “I can explain.”

“Can you?” Because for the life of him Bruce couldn’t come up with a good reason for why Damian was bathing his dog in _his_ tub, in _his_ ensuite when there were _nine_ other perfectly adequate bathrooms in the manor, one his son had all to himself. There were several access points to hoses and sprinklers all around the manor grounds, and they had _two_ pools. And yet—

“...and so I decided it would be best to bath Titus here. I’m sorry, Father,” said Damian, actually looking contrite. Titus whined, looking as apologetic as his owner. “You were still sleeping when I came in, and Pennyworth said you’d wouldn’t wake until noon.”

“What time is it?”

“Ten?” Damian pulled out his phone. “Ten twenty-six.”

Bruce dragged a hand over his face. “I’m going back to bed. When I wake up, I want this bathroom clean. No dog. Ask Alfred for the supplies.” 

Damian opened his mouth, and for a moment looked like he was going argue. But then he simply scowled and crossed his arms. Bruce wasn’t one to remark on how strongly his son sometimes resembled him—he left that to Dick, or Clark, or Stephanie—but he very studiously avoided glancing at the large bathroom mirror.

“If you say so, Father,” Damian muttered.

“Yes, I do say so,” he said, and with that fatherly parting shot, closed the door. Right on time too, from the sound of it.

“No, Titus!” Damian yelled from the other room, probably now as wet as the Great Dane. “Bad dog!”

 

* * *

 

It was afternoon and the house was quiet. Too quiet. Alfred was out running his usual Saturday errands, but Bruce’s kids should have been up and about. And he’d seen Dick’s motorcycle in the garage.

He walked through the silent house, guard raised, an eye out for any oncoming attacks. But no one jumped out at him, or dropped down from a chandelier, or leapt out from behind a chair.  

His bedroom was empty when he walked into it. But as he was removing his cufflinks, something prickled the edges of his senses, the feeling that there was someone in the room with him. Usually his senses were right on the money, but the walk-in closet was empty, as was the trunk at the foot of the bed. Nothing lurked under or over the bed, and no one had squeezed themselves under a table or a chair. The curtains were lurker free.

That left the ensuite.

Cautiously, Bruce edged towards the bathroom. The door was ajar, and what little he could see looked undisturbed. With the toe of his shoe, he pushed the door open. It looked as pristine as ever, with nothing out of place.

Then he heard it. A breath.

His hand twitched, instinctively seeking a weapon that wasn’t there. But the possibility of the intruder being an assassin or a thief was much lower than it being...

“Damian. Cassandra.”

“Shhh!” he heard from the cabinet under the sink.

“Stephanie?” _This_ surprised him. Not that she’d get caught up in a prank war, but that she’d hide, of all places, in _his_ rooms.

She seemed to have predicted his train of thought because she said, sounding rather breathless, “I just wanna let you know this was Tim’s suggestion.”

“Right.”

“Stand back. Imma come out now.”

The cabinet doors swung open. She’d done a pretty good job of squeezing herself into the limited space—Stephanie was not a small woman—though it looked like she’d sat herself right down on all the clean towels. They’d have to be taken down to be laundered again.

“Oh, Jesus,” Stephanie groaned, half rolling, half crawling out of her hiding place. She let him help her to her feet, and stretched, her spine cracking loudly. “Thank god I do yoga.”

Bruce hmmmed. “I don’t suppose this game is over yet.”

She shook her head and began rummaging through the medicine cabinet. “Nah, it only ends when the winner—ah!”

“That’s my shaving foam.”

“Sorry, I’ve got to commandeer this in the name of the game.” She clutched it to her chest, a look of exaggerated horror spreading across her face. “You wouldn’t let me go out there unarmed, would you?”

Bruce sighed. He wasn’t going to argue with his former Robin over a can of shaving cream. “Fine. Don’t break anything.”

“Tell that to Dick’s fat ass,” she said, patting his arm cheerily. He noticed that her eyes kept flicking to the window like she expected someone to come crashing through it.

“Who’s hunting you?”

“Dick. So I’ve got to beware death from above.”

Bruce knew that feeling all too well. “You should look out for the tall furniture too, especially in the east wing.”

She flashed him a bright smile. “Thanks, B, you’re the best. Sometimes. Oh and since you did me a solid, just a heads-up. You’re Cass’ target.”

And with that parting warning and a wicked, widening grin, she sailed out of the room.

Bruce followed her to the door, watched her race silently down the corridor and disappear around the corner. The hallway was empty. It was still far too quiet.

He locked the bedroom door, and as an added measure dragged a chair under the handle. Or on second thought, maybe hiding out in cave would be the safer alternative until Alfred returned to save him from his children. If he even made it there alive.

 

* * *

 

The first sign that something was wrong was the odd feeling of dampness that washed over him as he walked into the room. The second was the water, the way the carpet began to squish under his shoes as he approached the en suite.

No time to investigate. He kicked down the door, the heavy wood splintering next to the lock.

"Arghh!" the bathroom’s occupant screamed. “What the shit!”

For a moment he was blinded, first by the steam, then by the shower curtain as it came crashing down over him.

“Tim?” He brushed the stiff cloth away from his face. “What the hell is going on?”

In the tub, sloshing water over the rim and further flooding the floor, his son clutched the other end of the curtain to his chest and stared frantically around the room.

“Tim,” Bruce said again, cautiously lowering himself to his knees next to the tub, not caring that hot bathwater immediately started soaking through his trousers.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Tim was muttering to himself, before he clapped a hand over his own mouth. With the other, he turned off the running tap.

“Tim, are you all right?”

Tim nodded frantically, but still looked around the room like he wasn’t quite sure of what he was seeing. “Yeah, I just...I think I fell asleep.” He groaned, and tried to sink back into the water, pulling the curtain over his face. Bruce quickly reached out and hooked his hand under Tim’s armpit, keeping his head above the water. The hot water had left him flushed red, but none of him looked scalded. Clearly this required some parental intervention. Luckily there was a cabinet nearby, and he fumbled blindly for a towel, something to wrap Tim with. His son wasn’t making it easy, clutching the shower curtain in a death grip even as Bruce tried to haul him to his feet. The wet, slippery floor, and his smooth-soled Armani loafers weren’t helping the process either.

The towel turned out to be a fluffy bath mat. Whatever. Bruce wrapped a slumping, pruny and water-logged Tim in it and sat him down on the toilet before he pulled a first aid kit out of the sink cupboard.

“Concussion?” he asked, shining a penlight into the boy’s eyes. Tim squirmed but didn’t look away. His pupil reaction was normal. There were no bruises or contusions, and no blood came away when Bruce felt around his scalp.

“No. Just-just–” Tim yawned so hard his jaw cracked. “Just tired.”

“And you decided to sleep in my tub with the water running?”

“Told you, I fell asleep. And I like your shampoo.”

“You could just ask Alfred to buy you the same brand,” Bruce said drily as he pulled out more towels—actual towels this time—and passed one to Tim to replace the now soaked bath mat. With another he started drying Tim’s hair. When had it gotten so long? It looked about due for a haircut.

“It’s more...I don’t know, stealing shampoo is more fun.” Tim cracked another yawn, and this time Bruce couldn’t resist the contagion, yawning along. “Used to do it when my parents were away. Though I don’t even remember if they ever smelled like their shampoo….” He frowned slightly, drifting off into memory.

Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. “Bed. Now.”

He’d never really tucked Tim in. For the longest time he’d resisted getting close to his third Robin, then there’d been the whole thing with Jack finding out and getting killed shortly after. He’d never intended to replace Tim’s father, hoping the boy would have some chance at a normal life. And now was Tim too old for these parental gestures of affection. Yet here he was, steering Tim down the hallways to his room, helping him remove dirty laundry from his bed so he could pull back the blankets, making sure nothing with a screen or buttons was within reach.

“Please turn on the noise.”

“What?”

“The white noise.”

The small machine sat on Tim’s desk. He pressed the ‘on’ button and immediately the sound of static filled the room, drowning out the birdsong drifting through the window. 

“Night, Bruce.”

Threads of sunlight were gleaming through cracks in the heavy blackout curtains. “Good night, Tim.”

His son just sighed when Bruce ruffled his hair and pressed a kiss to his brow. Then he took Tim’s overstuffed laundry hamper down to the laundry room.

 

* * *

 

It had been a long, hot night. Not for the first time that summer, Batman was beginning to reconsider going out. His armour felt glued to him and had come off with sucking sounds in the cave. The under armour he’d worn underneath—the lightest he had—was soaked. He wanted, _needed_ a cold shower. And in the morning Bruce Wayne was going to make sure his company was doing everything they could about their carbon footprint and global warming. It was probably time for a new campaign. His PR team was going to be happy. 

He could have cleaned up down in the cave, but from the sound of it, Dick, Cass and Steph had started a water fight in the showers. Wishing to avoid being hosed in the face for the second time this week, Bruce pulled a robe over his smelly, sweaty self and headed up to his room.

The ensuite was occupied.

“Oops, sorry!” said Jason, completely unapologetic. “I didn’t know you’d just gotten back.”

Liar. His second had clearly lain in wait for him to return. He’d only just started scrubbing his first knife.

Bruce wasn’t even sure where Jason had gotten all the knives. They definitely wouldn’t all have fit in his usual arsenal. Knives were laid out across the floor, piled in the sink, propped up in his toothbrush holder, sorted by size on the toilet lid. Alfred’s bread knife sat on the floor next to a kukri, and Bruce was pretty certain some of the butter knives in the sink were from his mother’s silver.

“I’m so sorry, Bruce!” Jason was saying. “I’d put them all away but I just took them out and it might take me all night to clean them.”

Bruce grunted, grabbing a towel. There were nine other bathrooms in the manor—

“I’ve just got so many knives, I had to distribute them across all the bathrooms! And don’t go into mine, I’m cleaning my guns there.”

There was the pool—

“I pissed in all the pools.”

 _Jesus Christ_. The hot-tub—

“The hot tub’s currently in cleaning mode, I dumped a bunch of chlorine tablets in there.”

“Jason…”

“What?” asked his son, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “I’m sorry, I’m just trying to keep my shit clean and well maintained, y’know, like you taught me. Can’t be a filthy rebel forever.”

He said all that while emptying every bottle within reach into the tub. In the heat, the combination of smells threatened to make Bruce’s head ache. He sighed. “Just clean everything up when you’re done. Don’t make Alfred do it.” 

“Well duh,” Jason yelled after him as Bruce walked out of the room. If he asked nicely, maybe Alfred would let him use his shower. “It’s not like I grew up surrounded by wealth and luxury, and never learned how to clean up after myself.”

Kids.

 

* * *

  
“Cassandra?” 

“Mmmm?”

“How many bath bombs did you put in there?”

The water was black, dark as the night. He’d almost gotten a heart attack, walking tiredly into his bathroom and turning on the light, to find his only daughter swimming in a pool of ink, just her eyes and the top of her head showing. The room smelled overwhelmingly of orange with undertones of lavender. Bruce wrinkled his nose. 

“Four, I think,” said Cass, folding her arms over the rim of the tub. At least the colour didn’t look like it would stain her skin.

“And why here?”

“Your tub’s bigger than mine,” she said with a shrug. “And I like the view.”

Bruce had to agree with her. The ensuite view was nice. It was the same as that from his bedroom window, overlooking Gotham. Only that she couldn’t really see it, sitting in the tub.

“Right,” he said. “Enjoy the view.”

There was a guest bathroom on the floor below, he could use that. He grabbed his toothbrush. Cassandra blew bubbles and flicked water after him.

Downstairs, Bruce pulled back the shower curtain. The tub was smaller, much more cramped, especially for him. But that meant that the one inky bath bomb Cassandra had left for him on the sink would suffice for the whole tub.

He unwrapped the bat-shaped bar. There were specks of glitter in it, and the sticker label called it a “Batharang.”

Jesus Christ, his kids.

 

* * *

  
After the Jason-with-the-knives and the Cassandra-with-the-four-bath-bombs incidents, Bruce stepped into his bathroom a little more cautiously. The floor was dry, there were no knives, the tub was empty of water, bath bomb, dog and child. 

But Dick was sitting on the toilet lid, tossing a shampoo bottle from one hand to another.

“Hey, Bruce,” his eldest said tiredly. “Just...don’t mind me.”

“Of course,” said Bruce, and walked in, sitting down on the floor across from Dick. Dick sighed.

“If you really wanted me not to mind,” Bruce pointed out. “You wouldn’t be here.”

Dicked sighed again. But he slid off the toilet to sit down on the cold tile floor next to Bruce. He didn’t lean his head against Bruce’s shoulder like he’d done as a child but it was close enough.

“Work?”

Dick hnn-ed. And a hnn from Dick, unlike a hnn from Bruce, could mean anything.

“Is it a case? Because if you need help—”

Dick was on his feet in a flash. “I can work my cases on my own, Bruce, Jesus.” He squeezed the bottle so hard the cap popped open, and a puff of sandalwood filled the room.

“Yes, yes,” said Bruce impatiently, holding up his hands in surrender. He didn’t want to have this argument for the nth time, especially when nothing seemed to warrant it.

Never one to sit still, especially when agitated, Dick started pacing the room. There was space enough for it. Bruce migrated from the floor to the toilet, trying very hard not to push his son even as Dick grabbed two more bottles and started juggling them with the first as he paced.

Bruce was seriously considering leaving—and then coming back with either Alfred or Damian in tow—when Dick started speaking.

“You know...when you threw out your mom’s perfume? Around ten years ago. It expired, and it smelled bad. And you threw it out, not the bottle, just the perfume.”

Bruce grunted. He remembered. It had been one of the things he’d hoarded for years, artifacts of his past, even though the smell his mother’s perfume often triggered him, making him flash back to that night in the alley. That sweet perfume mixing with the smell of gunpowder and blood. Martha Wayne had always worn a bit too much of it, on her neck, on her wrist. Bruce could always smell it when he walked next to her, holding her hand.

“My mom,” Dick was saying, “she didn’t really wear perfume. She could have bought a cheap bottle of it, but I don’t think she liked the smell. She always smelled like powder, or chalk, or sweat.”

Bruce mmm-ed carefully, unsure of where this was going.

Dick stopped juggling. He put two of the bottles back down, then opened the one left—the one he’d been holding when Bruce entered—and squeezed. Another puff of sandalwood filled the room. They breathed it in.

Then Dick set the bottle down. He scrubbed his hands through his hair almost frantically. “I just...ugh, it’s just been a weird, shit day. And I don’t want to talk about it,” he adds. “I don’t even know why it’s shit.” 

Nodding slowly, Bruce stood and opened his arms. Dick just about flew into them, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s back and pressing his face into Bruce’s shoulder. Tension leaked from him.

“You could just ask Alfred to buy you the same brand,” Bruce offered, hugging his eldest tight.

“It’s not the same,” Dick sniffed, “but thanks anyway.”

 

* * *

  
Someone was slapping his face so he punched them. They caught the punch in their palm, turning the blow away. He pulled his hand back but it was caught fast. With his free hand he threw another blow, but that too was deflected. Strong hands circled his wrists, pinning them together. But they’d forgotten to secure his feet—

“If you kick me, Bruce, you’re going to feel very sore in the morning. Sorer.”

He woke up, blinking through the grayish dark. “Clark?”

“Hey,” said Clark. He released his hold on Bruce’s wrists. “Why are you in the tub?”

He slowly looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he began to make out the tiled pattern on the bathroom wall, the sink, the mirror. Clark, crouched by the bathtub.

“I don’t…” He touched a hand to his head. There was a contusion near his temple. No stitches. Probably a concussion.

“I came to bed and you weren’t in it,” Clark was explaining, “and I knew you’d returned to the cave, you checked in with me. Then I heard you. You sounded like you were fighting someone.”

Maybe he had been. Dreams never stayed with Bruce. When they did, it was time to start checking for drugs or mind control.

“Anyway,” Clark said, “usually I just let you fight it out, but I was worried you’d hurt yourself in the tub. Also, I’ve never actually seen you do this.” He gestured around the bathroom. Then as Bruce instinctively turned to track the motion of his hand, he quickly peeked a look over the rim of his glasses.

“Stop scanning my brain,” Bruce growled.

“I wasn’t—” 

“If you don’t want me to know you’d stop using that stupid tell.” He mimed peering over glasses he wasn’t wearing.

“All right, all right,” said Clark, holding his hands up in surrender. “Will you come to bed now? Please?”

“No.”

“So you’re going to sleep in the tub all night.”

“It’s big enough.”

Clark looked at the tub dubiously, like he himself had never showered in it, sat in it or fucked in it before. “I guess.”

“Go to bed, Clark.”

“I’d rather you were in it with me.”

“Then go home,” he growled. He pulled his blanket—which turned out to be a bath mat—over his shoulder.

Clark sighed and walked out. A moment later he returned with a blanket and pillow. “Take these at least.”

Bruce tucked his towel pillow more firmly under his head. “I’m good.”

“Jesus Christ, Bruce.” Clark dropped the pillow and blanket on him, and walked out, not bothering to close the door. Bruce could hear him climb into the bed, rustling with the sheets as he settled down. He kicked the blanket off and threw the pillow through the doorway.

It didn’t even take a minute for Clark to be up again. He strode into the bathroom, pillow in hand. “You are behaving like a child!”

He reached out, probably intending to cram the pillow behind Bruce’s head, and Bruce reflexively cringed back. Clark froze mid movement, then pulled back. “One of those nights, huh?” 

It took several moments for Bruce to unlock his jaw and speak. “Yeah,” he muttered.

“Okay,” said Clark. He took the pillow and blanket away. Bruce settled back into his tub. There were the sounds of drawers opening, pillows rustling, and then the window was opened. And then nothing for several minutes, until Clark floated into the bathroom, hair blown back. He held the blanket and pillow out to Bruce by their edges.

“I changed the covers and then shook them out at twenty-thousand feet.”

Bruce accepted the offerings. “Thanks.”

Both pillow and blanket were crisp and cool. No smell of anything, except the slightest hint of ozone, though he was probably imagining that. He tucked the pillow under his head, and shifted the bath mat so that he was lying on it instead of under it. Then he pulled the blanket over himself. Clark watched gormlessly the entire time.

Bruce sighed. “Go to bed.”

Then he added, “Thank you.”

Clark’s glance flicked over to the bedroom. Then he sat down. “I know you don’t want to be touched right now,” he said, “but if I just sit here, until you fall asleep, would that be all right?”

“Fine,” grumbled Bruce. “It’s your loss if you’re not going to take advantage of having the bed all to yourself.”

Clark snorted. “I can just fly over and sleep in it when you’re out. Besides, I’d rather have you in it too.”

“You know,” he added, “I could just shake out the whole bed. It’s no trouble. And I’ll just sleep in one of the guest rooms or go home for the night.”

Now Clark was making him feel like even more of an ass. “No, it’s fine.”

“Really Bruce, it’s no—” Clark was getting to his feet.

“No! Just-just–” he punched his pillow, growling in frustration. “Fine, go, whatever.” He rolled over, the bath mat shifting under him. He pulled the blanket over his head.

Clark didn’t leave. He shuffled around a bit, and then...nothing. Not even the sound of him breathing. After thirty minutes, Bruce sat up, and peered over the edge of the tub.

The idiot had gone to sleep right there on the bathroom floor. Jesus Christ.

Bruce watched Clark sleep for a while, chest barely rising and falling, looking inhumanly still, looking dead. He resisted the urge to check, _wanted_ to resist the urge to check if Clark was still alive. But he took the towel, his former makeshift pillow, and none too gently tucked it under Clark’s head. Then he settled back in the tub. He left one hand resting on the rim.

He was on the knife edge of sleep when he felt fingers gently, very gently, slide up between his own. Clark’s thumb brushed once against his own, then settled.

Bruce fell asleep.

 

* * *

  
Alfred hadn’t noticed him. Bruce had. Bruce had heard him in time, and slipped out of the bed, crawling underneath it like he had so many times before-- 

He choked back a sob, accidentally inhaling some dust instead. The sneeze he muffled in the crook of his elbow. He had to stay quiet after all. Alfred always got so worried when he spent his time in here. And Alfred always looked worried nowadays, the lines around his eyes spreading, the thinning patch of hair on his head growing thinner. Bruce knew it was because of the custody case, of the people who said it wasn’t right for him to be raised by a servant, so he tried to stay out of Alfred’s way as much as possible. His parents had told him not to get underfoot, not to disturb the maids, and the cook and Alfred.

It was quiet under the bed, and dusty. Alfred had sent the maids away, and things got cleaned less often.

It was probably why Alfred had gone into the bathroom. Most of the furniture in the house had been put away or covered in dust sheets, except in the most frequented living spaces and Bruce’s room. And his parent’s room, though since they weren’t using it anymore, maybe it was time for their things to be put away too.

 _No!_ He tried to sit up, forgetting he was under the bed and hitting his head against the heavy wood. _There were things in there that he still needed!_

“Alfred! Alfred, you can’t!” He crawled out from under the bed as fast as he could, trailing dust. The door to the bathroom wasn’t locked, and it flew open as he threw himself against it, bouncing it off the wall.

“Good heavens!”

Bruce skidded to a stop. Dust floated down from his hair, tickling his nose. He sneezed, and sneezed again, wiped his nose on his dusty sleeve against Alfred’s protest, and sneezed again. At that point Alfred sought to rescue him, handing him a handkerchief to use instead of his sleeve, pulling his dusty sweater over his head and finally running a washcloth under a tap. He handed this to Bruce. “Wipe your face, your hair and your hands, Master Bruce, and then tell me what it was you were shouting about.”

Bruce did as told, then handed the washcloth back to Alfred. “You can’t throw out their things, Alfred. I need them!”

“Throw out?” repeated Alfred, looking bemused. He looked around the room, and Bruce followed his gaze. Nothing...nothing had changed. Nothing had been thrown out. Alfred was just in the en suite...resting?

Alfred sighed. “Come here, my child,” he said, going down on one knee and spreading his arms. Bruce went. It was easy with Alfred, almost as easy as it had been with his mother and father. Other people made his skin crawl, but Alfred felt right. And he smelled different. No cologne, no perfume, not even the fresh smell of detergent. Just clean.

“I miss them too, Master Bruce,” he said. And Bruce knew then that Alfred came here too because it was easiest to be close to them here, where in the large house, they’d left most of themselves behind. But he didn’t cry, so Bruce didn’t cry either.

“We’ll have to throw some of these things away eventually,” Alfred said when he gently disengaged from the hug.

“I know,” said Bruce. He reached across the giant tub—far bigger than the one in his bathroom, he was sure this could fit three people—and grabbed hold of a bottle of shampoo. It was half empty. Thomas and Martha had used the same shampoo. His father had said he liked how it made his hair soft and smell like lavender. His mother would then call him “flower child”. “That’s patchouli, dear,” his father would say and his mother would spray him with her perfume while he’d try to run.

Bruce squeezed the bottle and the faint scent of lavender filled the air. He heard Alfred take a deep breath beside him, and then sigh. “We should go now, Master Bruce,” he said, rising to his feet and gently nudging Bruce’s shoulder.

He put the shampoo back. “I could buy you the same brand,” Alfred offered.

Bruce shook his head. “No thank you, Alfred. It’s not going to be the same.”

If he noticed later how Alfred sometimes, ever so slightly, smelled like lavender, he never asked about it.

 

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be pure family fluff and humour, when the angst and sense memory/sensory stuff elbowed their way in.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Kudos and/or comments are much appreciated!


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